


A Form of Confession

by derryderrydown



Series: Bruce is fucked in the brainpan [1]
Category: Batman - Fandom, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Genderfuck, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-06
Updated: 2009-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-04 05:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, Bruce is fucked in the brain pan.</p><p>So is Tim.</p><p>Co-written with Propaganda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Form of Confession

Tim still thinks this job would have worked just as well with him being male but Bruce - and Alfred - disagreed. Coatcheck assistants are usually women so Tim must appear to be a woman.

Hence, the disturbingly small black skirt and the high heels he's spent a week practicing how to walk in. And the stockings that make him far too aware of the bare skin at the tops of his thighs. But no wig, which is a relief, and while the make-up isn't subtle it still manages to be vaguely classy.

Which isn't a surprise. This hotel doesn't employ trash.

He has to reluctantly accept he makes an attractive girl when nearly all the men - and some of the women - let their eyes linger as they hand their coats over. So he's not really surprised when Bruce Wayne flirts with him, but he's surprised at how far Bruce _takes_ it.

Especially in front of other people.

Leaning across the counter. Stroking Tim's shoulder.

He didn't think it was Bruce Wayne's style to hit on the hired help. He thought he went for the empty debutantes but the other rich people are smiling like this is perfectly normal Bruce Wayne behaviour.

It's quite a relief when Bruce heads off to the reception proper and Tim can get on with his snooping through the pockets of overcoats.

"Now, now," says a jovial voice from behind him, and Tim whips around, ready to nail the person with a nerve strike if they ask just what he thinks he's doing, but--

"Bruce," he says with relief. "Anything to report?"

Bruce smiles emptily at him across the partition. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you're talking about. And it's only fair that if you know my name, I should know yours."

There must be somebody around, Tim thinks, so he smiles and says, "_Everybody_ knows you, Mr Wayne. Can I help you?"

Bruce leans on the counter. "That's a loaded question. How about we start by you telling me your name?"

Tim bites his lip. This persona - if it even _exists_ \- would have a name like Tammi. Something as empty as the debutantes Bruce Wayne _normally_ hits on. But Tim doesn't think that name quite..._fits_. A name from the Titans' past comes into his head and - it'll do. "Tara," he says, and watches Bruce's eyes for a telltale flicker. There isn't one. Damn, Bruce is _good_.

"Tara," Bruce says, rolling the 'r' atop his tongue like a marble. "That's a lovely name for a lovely girl."

And people _fall_ for this? Tim tries not to laugh. "Thank you." He tilts his head and narrows his eyes slightly. "Tell me, Mr Wayne, did you come out here just to ask me my name? Or did you want something else?" Such as a chance for me to tell you that Gordon Campos, that nice old man with the 18-year-old wife, has approximately 10g of cocaine in his coat pocket.

Bruce keeps that smile on his face, and leans over the lower part of the door, twisting the knob. The door opens and Bruce sidles in, closing it behind him and leaning back against it. "Your name was about as far ahead as I'd thought, Miss Tara."

Well, Bruce could have come up with a lower profile way of getting some time alone with him, but this one works. Tim grins, just in _case_ anyone was watching, and steps backwards, into the shadowed recesses that were well out of public view. "Jeez, Bruce," he says, voice low. "You _like_ making me feel like an idiot, don't you?"

Bruce's smile doesn't change. "An idiot, Tara? Hardly that. In fact," Bruce continues, pitching his voice lower - not quite the   
Batman range, but getting there - and moving closer to Tim, who finds his back pressed against the far wall of the coatroom, "I think you're a very...bright...young lady."

"Bruce?" Tim says. Oh, fuck. He's been hit on the head or something. He _must_ have been.

Bruce leans forward, bracing one hand on the wall right beside Tim's ear, and sliding the other back behind Tim's neck, his thumb resting softly on Tim's jaw. Tim swallows and glances to either side. Coats, a thick wall of coats, and there's no way anyone could possibly see them from the doorway.

At the moment, Tim really isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.  "Bruce," he hisses. "You really need to get back out there and keep an eye on Campos."

"Right now," Bruce says, his mouth close up against Tim's ear, "my eyes are on _you_."

Tim wants to laugh crazily at the ridiculous come-on, or shove Bruce away and grin at him, Ha, ha, great joke, Bruce, now what's up with Campos, but... He does his best to breathe normally because he's starting to understand how Bruce does actually get away with the lines.

Bruce's thumb presses up against the underside of Tim's jaw. "Tara," Bruce breathes, and brushes a barely-perceptible kiss against Tim's cheek.

And Tara...  Hell, Tara's probably on the look-out for a rich husband.  And maybe Bruce isn't husband material but he's probably   
good for some expensive jewellery.So Tara can slide her hands around Bruce's waist and pull his shirt out of his pants. Tim sucks in a breath when Bruce bites the skin over his jaw. "Yes," Bruce says, and Tim slips his hands underneath Bruce's shirt.

Tara would probably be surprised at the amount of scar tissue there. Would want to run her fingers over it, trace scars up Bruce's spine. And she'd tilt her head to the side so Bruce could bite down her neck. And... maybe she's done this before. Oh, yes, Tara's _definitely_ done this before, because this is an upscale hotel and the back of the coat room really _is_ very well-hidden from the doorway. And Tara knows all of this, and knows Bruce Wayne's type, and knows what that type _wants_.

Tara slides her hands - delicate little hands, with none of Tim's callouses - round to Bruce's chest and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Bruce takes his hand off the wall and rests it on Tara's hip, stroking just _slightly_ with his thumb.

Tara lets the backs of her hands brush against Bruce's chest. "God, Mr. Wayne," she says, and a smirk creeps onto her face. "I heard you got into a lot of skiing accidents, but..."

Bruce bites harder and Tara giggles. Tara would definitely giggle. Then Bruce is licking the scar on Tim's neck. "And what kind of accidents do _you_ get into, Miss Tara?" His voice is a low rumble, low enough for Batman but with none of the command behind it. Just...  Tim doesn't know what but it makes him gasp.

"The _best_ kind," Tara says, because maybe she can't get away with the lines Bruce can, but it certainly helps when she's one-handedly unbuttoning Bruce's tuxedo pants. Tim can feel himself shaking, somewhere, at the hard press of Bruce's erection against his fingertips, but... Tara has poise. A certain amount of it.

Tim holds on to that poise as he wraps his hand round Bruce's cock and-  Okay, he hasn't done it from this _angle_ but the actions should be familiar.  And Tara's certainly done it from this angle.  Tim closes his eyes and concentrates.

Bruce is unbuttoning Tara's blouse, his knuckles digging into her stomach as he rocks, thrusting into Tim's curled fist. Tim stares down at Bruce's bent head, the thick black hair, the few gray hairs shot through it, and swallows rapidly. "Shit," he gasps, and Tara speeds up her hand.

But then Bruce's hand is tight around his wrist and he's smiling into Tara's eyes. "You have such a pretty mouth," he says and licks over Tara's lower lip. Tim wonders absently if the lip gloss tastes the same to Bruce as it does to him. "Pretty mouth," Bruce repeats and then there's pressure on his shoulders and Tara lets herself be pushed - no, _guided_ \- to er knees.

Oh, god. Tim takes a deep breath, and Tara hooks her forefingers in the waistband of Bruce's pants, then tugs them down carefully as she leans forward and licks the head of Bruce's cock once, twice, then takes it into her mouth. A part of Tim's brain notes the familiar smell. Tara's all about the fact that, wow, the rumours about Bruce Wayne are true.

Bruce's fingers are in Tara's hair, messing the careful styling. Tim's willing to bet his make-up is a smeared mess. But it doesn't matter because Bruce's cock is in his mouth and suddenly Tara's got nothing to do with it. He doesn't want to hear Bruce whispering Tara's name, doesn't want Bruce to be calling anyone's name but _his_ when he comes. He moans when Bruce yanks sharply on his hair, and swallows around Bruce's cock.

Tara wants Bruce to come--wants it to be _her_ turn now--but Tim is fixated on the heavy weight of Bruce's cock on his tongue, the slick press of it against his lips as Bruce fucks his mouth. And then Bruce just _shoves_ into his mouth and his hands are painfully tight in Tim's hair and Tim's _gagging_ \- which Tara would never do - and Bruce is coming. Bruce is fucking i&gt;coming in his mouth.

Tim barely has time to swallow before Bruce pulls back, grips Tara's biceps to haul her to her feet, and kisses her hard, tongue pressing against her reddened mouth. Tim gasps and brings his hands up as if he's going to push Bruce away, but Bruce catches them in his own hands, twines his fingers with Tim's - Tara's - the pretty, fake, red-painted nails a sharp contrast against Bruce's scarred hands.

"I'm sure you want something," Bruce says, his mouth still touching Tim's.

Tim isn't sure if it's Tim or Tara who says, "Touch me."

Tim can feel Bruce smile against his mouth, a sharp little smile that flickers away as fast as it came, a _Batman_ smile, and Tim lets out a moan that has nothing to do with Bruce's fingers gripping Tara's hips and turning her around so that her perfectly bronzed cheek is pressed against the wall, and Bruce is resting one hand on her ass.

He's pulling the skirt up now, palms stroking up her thighs. Over the top of the stockings, rough hands on bare skin, then up to the panties. Green silk panties and had Tim really laughed about Dick when he'd put them on earlier? Bruce's fingers curl into the top of them and he pulls them down so slowly that Tim wants to scream. But Tara's enjoying it. Enjoying the slow build-up and the knowledge that Bruce wants her.

Rich, famous Bruce Wayne, who's kissing the back of Tara's neck, licking it and nipping occasionally, breathing, "Tara," against her skin. His hands aren't at all gentle when they stroke her ass, and Tim suddenly wants Bruce's hands _everywhere_, on his nipples, on his cock, and he struggles to pull off Tara's blouse while Bruce strokes a thumb into the cleft of Tim's ass.

The bra.  The _fucking_ bra. But Bruce undoes the catch one-handed, takes him no time at all and neither Tim nor Tara is surprised, and then it's just a case of letting the bra drop. Tara would probably be embarrassed at losing her padding but Tim doesn't care.

And Tara probably wouldn't be as _vocal_ as Tim wants to be, probably wouldn't want to beg and push her ass against Bruce's hands, because she knows that even if the coat-room is well-sheltered, it's still _public_, but Tim doesn't care, Tim wants to moan and whimper Bruce's name and writhe when Bruce's fingers dig into his hips, holding him still.

"Pretty girl," Bruce whispers into his ear and Tim can feel Bruce's open shirt against his back, feel the warmth of Bruce's chest. And then all he can feel is Bruce's finger as it shoves into him, hard, and it hurts so much that he thinks he's bitten through his own lip. "Pretty girl," Bruce says again. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe through his nose, because Tara's done this before, right? Tara _likes_ this and so, theoretically, does Tim. And yes, Bruce is right, this is exactly what Tara wanted. Exactly what Tim _wants_.

"Isn't it?" Bruce says and twists his finger for emphasis.

Tim's sweating and trying not to shake. "Yes," he says and it turns into - something. Not a moan and not a squeal but somewhere between the two. Because Bruce is doing _something_, and Tim thinks he's going to come and Tara _knows_ she is. Tara would shove back onto Bruce's finger and when Tim does, he can't tell whether it's pleasure or pain that rips through him.

Because it's never felt like this before, for him _or_ Tara. Never felt like he's going to cry with the - with the _whatever_ the fuck it is of it. It's just too much and he has to bite his arm or he's going to scream because he's coming now and Bruce is murmuring something in his ear and Tim thinks he doesn't want to know what it is.

When Bruce lets him go, Tim collapses on to the floor and he barely notices when Bruce tucks something into his hand.

"Excellent service, Miss Tara," Bruce says and he's buttoning up his shirt, re-tying his bowtie, fastening his pants and he looks exactly like he did when he walked in here, except for a smear of lipstick on his chin.

Tim suspects that's deliberate.

"Campos," Tim says and has to swallow because his mouth feels as though it's just been fucked. "He's got cocaine in his pocket."

There's a brief flash of Batman when Bruce nods but then he's back to Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, as he saunters out.

Tim sits there for a moment, then thinks to look at what Bruce pressed into his hand. His hands are shaking and it's difficult to unfold it but when he does, he thinks he's going to be sick. He ignores Tara's glee and rests his head in his hands.

Two five-hundred dollar bills.


End file.
